


Let Me Down Softly This Time

by baptistes



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Mutal Pining, Oral Sex, Rimming, Somewhat Angsty at Times, but not really, gratuitous use of pet names, minor daddy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27679321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baptistes/pseuds/baptistes
Summary: “I’m eighteen now, aren’t I?”Yes, he is, sure, but that’s not the point. The point is that Otabek is good and Yuri Plisetsky makes him want to be anything but good.(alternatively: beka is a masochist.)
Relationships: Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 8
Kudos: 184





	Let Me Down Softly This Time

**Author's Note:**

> so this was supposed to be short and then I wrote 5k worth of smut which... doesn't happen to me anymore so I'll take it. slight CW for use of terms like 'whore' and 'slut'. 
> 
> title from 'the bolder thing to do' by gregory and the hawk.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Otabek says. It takes every fibre of his being to be good. He’s been trying to be good for far too long; why is it so hard now?

Yuri is pouting at him, arching his back so their chests are touching. Slutty, rude. Otabek keeps his hands planted firmly at his sides. He doesn’t trust himself enough to move them. Yuri’s hands are on his neck, in his hair, dipping into the collar of his black t-shirt. “Why not?” he asks. His voice is that high and needy tone that makes Otabek want to jump off a roof. “I’m eighteen now, aren’t I?” 

Yes, he is, sure, but that’s not the point. The point is that Otabek is good and Yuri Plisetsky makes him want to be anything but good. 

Yuri presses their foreheads together as he grinds down into Otabek’s lap, his hands reaching to grab Otabek’s larger ones and place them on his slim waist. He’d so dainty, so pretty, but his sharp tongue cuts deeper than a razor. Otabek loves to watch himself bleed.

He’s touching Yuri’s skin now, warm and slightly clammy beneath his cropped shirt. “You want to,” he says. Otabek closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. He’s good. He’s always been good. He’s _trying_. “I know you do. I see the way you look at me when you think I don’t see you. Just, please. _Please_. I’m asking nicely, Otabek.” 

Of _course_ he wants to. How could he _not_ want to when Yuri has done nothing but tease him for so long he’s lost count? When he was always begging for it even though he knew Otabek wouldn’t indulge him? How desperately he pleaded? Otabek would be a fool _not_ to want it. Or at the very least a masochist.

He can’t, is the issue. There’s a mental block in place that he just can’t get over; and he knows it’s for the better that he doesn’t. For both of them.

Yuri kisses him, hot and open-mouthed, and Otabek doesn’t pull away. He’ll allow himself this much. He can stop when he wants to, and besides, it doesn’t hurt to let Yuri have this either. It’ll get him off Otabek’s back for a little while. Trick the tsunami inside of him into becoming a tidal wave.

He tastes sweet, like strawberries and bubblegum and menthol cigarettes and vodka, and his tongue is like velvet against Otabek’s, soft and kind despite his fruitless attempts to make Otabek succumb to his advances. Otabek’s hands stay where they are on Yuri’s waist, not stopping the slow, residual grind of his ass against the front of Otabek’s jeans, but not encouraging it either. This will be enough to take the edge off, Otabek thinks, for them to be able to see each other without Yuri dropping to his knees like a sex-deprived slut vying for some semblance of attention. 

He only makes a move to stop Yuri when the younger’s hands move to undo his pants. He grabs Yuri’s wrists and flips them so Yuri is pinned beneath him. For a moment, Yuri looks hopeful. Then, Otabek says, “Don’t be a whore.” The words never sit right on Otabek’s tongue, but even he has the common sense to see that’s what Yuri is being. 

“Your whore,” Yuri tells him, mouth hanging open like he wants Otabek to shove his fingers in. Or something else. He tries to wiggle so Otabek’s leg is between his own, no doubt so he can use it to get off. “I’ll be your whore, you just have to ask me.”

“I’m not asking,” Otabek tells him, making a move to stand. “I don’t want a whore.” 

“You do,” Yuri tells him, sitting back on his elbows. “Of course you do. You’d like nothing more than for me to sit on your cock whenever you so much as breathe in my direction. Stop pretending like you don’t feel anything when it’s obvious you _do_.”

Otabek turns towards the door. “Good night, Yuri.”

“Please don’t go,” Yuri says. His voice has gone soft like he really means it. “I… I’m… Just don’t leave, please.” It’s typical for him not to be able to apologize. He’s never needed to before, why should he start now?

Otabek pauses in the doorway but doesn’t turn around. “You can call me in the morning, but only if you’re nice. I don’t want to deal with you like this.”

A moment of silence. “Okay,” Yuri says. 

If Otabek feels sick after leaving Yuri’s apartment, he doesn’t think about it. It’s better this way. 

-

The club feels sweltering; loud bass making the floors shake and lights filling the large room with an abundance of colours. Otabek’s just finished a set, and he’s walking from the back to the bar in a fresh set of clothes to cool off for a bit. It’s fun for him; being up on stage, seeing the people in the crowd dance, even if the lights obscure them. It gives him some pocket change, too, which is always nice. 

He gets a whiskey on the house even though he’d already had some drinks backstage with some of the other performers, but he can hardly take a sip before something catches his attention out of the corner of his eye. A slim man, with shoulder-length blond hair and flashy clothes, draped over two men, who are feeling him up in ways that just don’t look nice. Regardless, if the way the man is rolling his hips into then, he’s into it, in some way or another. 

Otabek throws his drink back. It’s like he’s looking at Yuri. He knows it _isn’t_ Yuri, of course, but the pang of jealousy that courses through him is still strong despite this. Unwarranted, but strong. In his tipsy state, he can acknowledge these feelings without being too hard on himself about it. It’s hard to deny yourself something you want when that thing is throwing itself at you fruitlessly, after all. 

He watches the older men and the slim one for a few songs, or until he’s had to order another drink just to take the edge of his imagination off. About halfway through it, the slim man turns in his direction, smirking. 

Otabek blinks. It’s not his imagination, after all. 

His immediate reaction is to throw his glass, but he doesn’t, of course. He just watches as one of the men slides his nasty hands under Yuri’s shirt, and Yuri makes the same face he does when Otabek does it. He opens them after a second, just to see Otabek’s reaction. 

He’s doing it on purpose, then. Of course he’d known about the show; he follows Otabek’s socials after all. It’s not like he’s trying to get over Otabek either-- he’d never go for such vile looking men. He’s actively trying to make Otabek upset, and regrettably, he’s succeeding. 

What had once been jealousy is now replaced with some sort of anger Otabek’s never experienced before; the kind that burns molten hot and makes you do things you probably shouldn’t. But he doesn’t do anything yet. He’s got enough self-control that he can stop himself from doing anything brash and-- oh, one of the men is biting at Yuri’s neck and… oh, Otabek is on his way over there, isn’t he? 

Otabek isn’t quite sure how he got here, just knows that knows he’s got Yuri by the back of the shirt and he’s dragging him away, and when one of the men goes _Who are you?_ and the other goes _He was enjoying himself_ , Otabek just barks, “ _Fuck_ _off_ ,” and they shut right up. 

Yuri doesn’t protest as he’s pulled into a quieter, dimly lit hallway, and he doesn’t protest either when Otabek gets him pinned to the wall with a hand fisted in his blond hair, tipping his head back so they’re eye to eye. He’s making this face at Otabek, lips parted and pupils blown wide like he can’t get enough, like this was his plan all along. 

“You are an insatiable, greedy little _brat_ ,” Otabek bites. He doesn’t like being mean, but he’s learned over the years that being mean pushes Yuri away, even for a few moments. The words never sit right on his tongue, but now, even though they’re intended with malice, it seems like Yuri _yearns_ for them. Negative attention is still attention, Otabek supposes, but it never bodes well for him. Damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t. “What are you doing, letting those disgusting men touch you just to get my attention? You can’t violate yourself just because you want me, Yuri.”

Yuri doesn’t say anything, eyes glassy. 

Otabek huffs. “What the fuck am I supposed to do, huh? Give you my cock to appease you for a bit? It’d never satisfy you, no matter how much you think it would. You’ve got to cut it out.”

“I can’t help it,” Yuri whine, leaning into the sting of Otabek’s hand coiled tightly in his hair. He looks small like this, defenseless. Nowhere for him to go with the arm pinning him in place and the grip of steel on his blond locks. “You made me this way.”

“ _I_ didn’t do anything,” he says, eyes narrowed. “You became this yourself.”

Despite the booming bass of the song playing, though muted in the dingy hallway Otabek has squeezed them into, the blood rushing through his ears is still louder. He probably shouldn’t be behaving like this. It was him, after all, who kept turning Yuri down. It’s not fair of him to be like this, but it’s what Yuri wants, isn’t it? He wanted Otabek to get jealous and lash out, because he knows, no matter how hard Otabek tries to hide it, of the feelings that have been brewing. It’s why he still tries at all, after all. 

It might be the alcohol allowing him to let his guard down, but still, Otabek leans closer and grits, “Do you know how _hard_ you’re making things for me?”

Yuri purrs; delighted little kitten. “I make you hard?”

Otabek chooses to ignore this. He’d have been a puddle for months now if it weren’t for his ability to ignore a good portion of Yuri’s insatiable, filterless vocabulary. “I spend _so_ much time trying to be good, Yuri, and you do nothing but come and fuck things up for me.”

“So give _in_ ,” Yuri growls. He’s started grinding on Otabek’s thigh, now, and because Otabek is a masochist he doesn’t move away. His hand tightens in Yuri’s hair, and the latter makes this little whimper from the back of his throat like a wounded animal, but not because it hurts. He’s biting his lip, making his eyes go soft so Otabek will give him what he wants. “No one is telling you to be good.”

“I am,” Otabek says after a moment. “ _I_ am.”

Yuri just looks at him. Dejected. Hurt. Otabek pretends not to care. He lets go of Yuri and takes a step back, brushing off the hand Yuri reaches out.

“Don’t call me tomorrow.” 

He leaves. 

-

In an odd show of obedience, Yuri doesn’t call him the next day. He doesn’t call him the day after, or a week after that, either. Otabek thinks it should feel good, seeing as he was the one who asked to be left alone in the first place, but it feels icky, like a heavy weight has been placed upon his shoulders and the world will end if he drops it. 

It’s not being without Yuri that makes him feel so gross; just the lack of communication overall. He’s used to Yuri being clingy, texting him non-stop and calling him even when he asks him not to. He knows he’d asked, he knows that. But Yuri _never_ listens. Why is he listening now?

He’d sent Yuri a text on the fifth day since the club, hopeful, but it’s been four days since then and there’s been nothing but radio silence from his end. It hadn’t been an extensive text or anything, and he didn’t apologize either, because he wasn’t _entirely_ in the wrong for being upset. He had just asked how Yuri was doing; perfectly normal, perfectly acceptable thing to message someone after you essential told them to fuck off indefinitely, right?

Yakov calls him a few days after he sent the text, and when they get through the whole mandatory small talk thing, he huffs out an exasperated sigh. “Look, Altin,” Yakov grunts out. “I normally wouldn’t do this, but Yuri has been even huffier than he normally is, and when I mentioned you he got all whiny and stormed out of practice and none of us have heard from him since. I know you two have a… thing, so fix whatever mess you’ve made, because I can’t let my best skater be a rotting corpse in his bed.”

It’s how he ends up at Yuri’s doorstep, unlocking the door with his key. 

Of _course_ Otabek has a key. Why wouldn’t Yuri have given him a key?

The living room is a bit of a mess when he walks in, plates and cups on the coffee table, a hoodie strewn over the back of the couch, an empty bag of chips on the floor. Otabek takes off his shoes and makes a move to tidy a bit before he goes to Yuri’s room. It isn’t an extensive cleaning or anything; he just puts the dishes in the sink and throws out the garbage, and Yuri will probably get pissy about it, _because I can do these things myself, Beka._ but Otabek doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t knock when he goes to Yuri’s room, because he knows he wouldn’t be let in if he did. The room, much like the living room, is messy with clothes all over and candy wrappers in piles on the floor. It smells sort of like stale cigarettes, like Yuri didn’t bother with going out to the balcony, or at least opening a window to blow smoke out of. 

Yuri is presumably under the horde of blankets on his bed, curled up and not acknowledging Otabek. The theory is confirmed when a grumbly, “Fuck off, Beka,” comes from beneath the pile of fabric. 

“Stop sulking. I brought you Hokkaido milk tea,” Otabek offers, holding up the plastic cup even though Yuri can’t see him. 

A pause. “With tapioca?”

“Yes, Yuri. With tapioca.”

“Extra sweet?”

“Yes.”

A hand shoots out from beneath the pile, and in it Otabek deposits the beverage and its straw. Yuri sits up, but his back is turned and he’s still wrapped in blankets. While Yuri drinks his peace offering, evident by the pop of the straw through the plastic and the quiet slurping, Otabek tidies a little bit here, too. He puts Yuri’s clothes in his hamper, and picks up the candy wrappers off the floor and throws them away, and when he’s done he sits at the foot of Yuri’s bed. He doesn’t say anything; he’s not sure if there are grounds to say anything on, yet.

After a while, maybe some fifteen minutes of them sitting silently together, Yuri emerges from his blanket cocoon to wrap his slender arms around Otabek from the side. 

“I thought you hated me,” Yuri says, by way of apology. What he really means is, _I’m sorry I went AWOL, I missed you, please don’t shut me out again_. Otabek’s chest squeezes, but he pushes it down. 

“I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that,” Otabek says, his own version of an apology. He wraps his arm around Yuri’s shoulder, squeezing. It’s an awkward angle, no doubt going to cramp if he stays like this for too long. It doesn’t matter though. “But you shouldn’t have violated yourself like that just to make me notice. It’s not healthy.”

“I know,” Yuri grumbles. 

“I texted you,” Otabek says, changing the subject. “You didn’t see it?”

Yuri shakes his head into Otabek’s chest. “I turned my phone off.”

“Yakov called,” he tells Yuri. Yuri sits up. “Said you stormed out of practice.”

“Is that why you came?” Yuri asks, looking somewhat hurt. “Because Yakov sent you?”

“I didn’t come sooner because I thought you hated me too, Yura.” 

Yuri’s face softens, but he’s still a little sour. “Whatever. Do you want to watch a movie or something, asshole?”

When they stand, Otabek can properly take in Yuri’s outfit. He’s in some flashy sweatpants and a big black hoodie-- one that’s even too big to be one he bought oversized. “Is that my sweater?” Otabek asks as they walk out of the room. 

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Yuri says. Otabek cocks an eyebrow. “Yes, fine. It smelled like you. Is it a crime to wear your clothes?” No, Otabek supposes it isn’t. It was his fault for leaving it there, anyway. It would have been stranger if he’d left it there and Yuri _hadn’t_ stolen it. “You cleaned?” he asks as they reach the living room. 

“I put the dishes in the sink and threw out a chip bag if you consider that cleaning.”

Yuri looks at him softly. Very out of character. “Thanks,” he says genuinely. Otabek shrugs, as it isn’t a big deal, really. “What do you want to watch?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

They watch some cheesy action movie from the eighties with bad special effects because it makes Yuri laugh. Halfway through the movie, Yuri plops his head on Otabek’s lap, and again, Otabek’s chest squeezes in a way that is completely uninvited. If Yuri notices him staring down, he doesn’t show it, though he does hum contentedly when Otabek’s fingers comb through his hair, slightly tangled from what Otabek assumes is a day or so without a proper brush. 

His fingers are still in Yuri’s hair when the credits roll, and again still when Yuri puts on an American sitcom with Russian subtitles. 

“Yuri,” Otabek says, three quarters of the way through the second episode. He needs to go home. He knows what’ll happen if he doesn’t. “I should probably--”

“Stay here,” Yuri says. He doesn’t sit up. “Please.”

“Yuri--”

“Otabek,” Yuri breathes, crawling up into Otabek’s lap. 

It makes sense, of course, that they’d end up back here, especially since they’ve been without contact for so long. Yuri gets especially clingy, especially touch hungry, like he’s never been touched before. 

It’s harder to say no when he’s like this. 

“Don’t start,” Otabek says firmly. Yuri has a knee bracketing either hip, and he’s taken the liberty of tucking his face into Otabek’s neck. “We were having a nice night, Yuri.”

“Otabek,” he hums, fingers playing deftly with the buzzed hairs of Otabek’s undercut. “We’re still having a nice night,” he says. “Aren’t we?”

“Come on.” His resolve is becoming weathered, he can feel it begin to crack. “I’ll even watch another episode with you.”

“ _Beka_ ,” Yuri murmurs, soft and kind and all the thing he shouldn’t be right now. “Beka, Beka, Beka.” He’s rubbing his cheek against Otabek’s shoulder, arms wrapped loosely around him. Otabek’s own are limp at his sides. He can’t touch Yuri like this. He doesn’t trust himself, again. Not now, when Yuri is so sweet and pliant in his arms, really, truly begging. 

“Stop.” It’s a weak protest, even to his own ears. Yuri nibbles on his jaw, whining. “I want to be good, Yuri. You should be too.”

Quiet, almost inaudible, Yuri whispers, “Daddy.” Otabek inhales sharply through his nose. Yuri must take this as an invitation, because clearer, more confident, he repeats, “ _Daddy_.” 

“ _Don’t_ ,” Otabek breathes, exasperated. “Just… don’t.” 

Yuri moves so they’re face to face, using his hands to move Otabek’s to his hips, where they stay, loosely holding him. He cups Otabek’s cheeks, looking deeply into his eyes. “Why?” he asks, sounding almost genuinely curious. “You like it, don’t you?”

He, or at least some small, hidden away part of him, _does_ like it, regrettably. It’s not an earth-shattering discovery about himself, more so that Yuri could call him almost anything and he’d still like him at the end of the day. It’s just the implications behind this particular name that make heat pool deep in the pit of Otabek’s stomach. Still, if Yuri said it again he’d certainly lose himself. 

“Don’t do this now, Yura,” he says. “Please leave it.”

“I’ll leave it if you’ll have me tonight,” Yuri says, and he’s said it before but this time he sounds like he really means it. “I promise I’ll never touch you again if you do it this once.” 

The question here, of course, is if Yuri will make good on his promise. He’s insatiable of course, and one taste of it would never be enough to satisfy him-- the way he’s been gagging for it for as long as Otabek can remember is more than enough to go off of. He wonders if it would be enough for him to have Otabek once and be unsatisfied until he finds someone else. _If_ he finds someone else. Then again, Yuri has never broken a promise before, and it would be unlike him to start now. 

The _real_ question, however, is if it will be enough for _Otabek_. 

Like that of thousand-year-old clay, the resolve Otabek has been building up and reinforcing for months on end comes crumbling down around them both with one word; a quiet utterance of, “Once?”

Though his expression remains steady, Otabek can see the hope flood Yuri’s eyes. “Once,” he says, nodding. “I swear, I’ll be good for you, Beka, I promise, cross my heart.” 

Otabek slides his hands up so that they’re under Yuri’s big sweater, holding his lithe waist. Yuri leans up into the touch, humming. His thumbs run, up and down, over the warm skin beneath them, smooth, and as pale as the rest of him, if not, paler. He’s so soft, despite the thin muscle beneath Otabek’s touch, the ridges of his ribs. Otabek wants to eat him alive. 

Otabek slides his sweater up, exposing his torso. His eyes trail the two lines of muscle in his stomach, the ones that narrow into a V and disappear beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. He eyes, too, the navel ring Yuri had gotten done on his seventeenth birthday, the gem glinting in the low light. 

Yuri is practically vibrating with anticipation, but frowning like he thinks he’ll be rejected again. 

“You’ll be good?” Otabek asks. 

Yuri perks up again, eyes flying open. “Yes,” he says. “I’ll be the best for you.”

Otabek sighs through his nose. “Just this once,” he agrees, bringing Yuri’s face down to kiss him. Yuri moans, surprised, into his mouth at it, like he really thought Otabek wouldn’t break that easily. Like it wasn’t his doing alone that broke him. Well, aside from the fact that at heart, Otabek is a very weak man when it comes to things like this. Things like Yuri, that come gift-wrapped with a bow. 

He pulls away only to press open-mouthed kisses to Yuri’s exposed stomach, soft and trembling beneath his lips. Otabek’s hands slide up Yuri’s back, holding him close. Yuri whines, arching into him. “I’ll be good,” he starts babbling, hands tangling themselves in Otabek’s cropped hair. “So good, Beka. Your good little slut.”

“You’re not my slut,” Otabek murmurs. “Just want you, Yura.” 

Yuri nods, but Otabek can’t see it. “I’ll be whatever you want.”

Otabek pulls him back down for another kiss. It’s oddly sweet, despite the way he tries to slip his tongue into Yuri’s mouth. Yuri opens up for him, of course he does, wanton and welcoming whatever Otabek has to offer.

They kiss for so long Otabek loses track of time. Yuri tastes like milk tea and his tongue is liquid smooth, warm where it curls around Otabek’s. His hands have found their way into Yuri’s pants, toying with his ass; pulling his cheeks apart, squeezing them, ghosting a finger over his hole. It makes Yuri shiver; he’s so worked up over hardly anything and Otabek can’t get enough of him. His hands are splayed over Otabek’s chest, his fingers digging in slightly at the feeling of Otabek nudging the tip of his own inside. It’s not enough to hurt; nor is it enough to feel much of anything with the lack of lube to ease the way, but it’s enough for Yuri to want more, and that’s the effect Otabek had been looking for. 

“Daddy,” he purrs, mouth gaping. Otabek brings a hand up to hook his thumb inside, making him open wider. The name makes heath thrum in his veins, but he hides that it does so much for him. “Please, more.”

“What do you want, Yura?”

Yuri bats his eyelashes. “Let me suck your cock?” 

Otabek nearly chokes. He’s all doe-eyed, suckling on Otabek’s thumb as though to give a taste of what his mouth can do elsewhere, if permitted. He takes his other hand out of Yuri’s pants, circling his waist with one finger before tapping his hip bone. “Go ahead,” he says, nudging Yuri so he gets off of his lap. 

Yuri falls unceremoniously to the floor, making quick work of Otabek’s belt and buttons. He smooths a hand over Yuri’s hair. “Slow down,” he says. “If you’ll only have me once, wouldn’t you rather take your time?”

Yuri pouts, but slows down as he undoes the zipper. “Can I make you come more than once?” he asks, innocent sounding despite its filth. “Seeing as I’ll only have you tonight.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Otabek says in response, thumbing over Yuri’s cheek. “But if you want me to, I can.”

Yuri smiles to himself as he urges Otabek’s hips up so he can pull his pants and underwear down to his thighs in one swift motion. At the sight of his cock, Yuri parts his lips, eyes wide. “I had a feeling you’d be big, but…” he trails off, licking his lips. “Fuck, Beka.”

Otabek grips his chin with his thumb and index fingers, the rough motion contrasted with the softness of his eyes. “Go on, then,” he murmurs. 

To say Yuri is eager is an understatement. He swallows Otabek down to the root before the latter can even process what’s happening, and he hardly even chokes on it despite the size. Otabek hasn’t ever had someone who could do that without at least a _little_ trouble, and he’s never been upset about it; it’s just that Yuri doing this without batting an eye is just a little bit shocking. 

“Jesus, Yuri,” Otabek grits, fisting a hand in Yuri’s hair and hunching over him. Yuri moans around his length, bobbing his head both eager and lax. After a minute or so, Otabek leans back into the couch cushions, tipping his head back to the ceiling. 

This is nice; Yuri is a soft, constant heat around him, with a pace alternating between quick bobs and slow deliberate pulls that seem to suck the soul out of him, bit by bit. He suckles on the head for a few moments, lips tight and the tip of his tongue rubbing under the crown. When Otabek looks down at him, he looks impossibly innocent, with his big doe eyes and the sleeves of Otabek’s hoodie covering his hands where he’s holding the base of Otabek’s cock. 

“Will you fuck my mouth?” he asks, voice already rough. “Pretty please?”

Why didn’t Otabek jump the mental hurdle earlier again?

“Your mouth is so filthy,” Otabek mutters, but he makes a move to do as requested anyway. Yuri opens his mouth, sticking his tongue out, wide and flat, so Otabek can slide home easily. 

He knows he isn’t going to last long like this, but he tries to hold off for a bit anyway. He wants to enjoy this, after all, since he’ll never do it again. He wants to relish in the choked sounds Yuri is making around him, of the tears that make his eyes red and puffy, and the way he’s palming furiously at himself through his sweats. 

When he cums, Yuri swallows it all, but Otabek isn’t surprised by this. He’s started petting Yuri’s head again, wiping his tears with the other. “Good kitten,” he says. Yuri doesn’t let his cock slip out of his mouth until it’s halfway soft again, no doubt going to perk up within a handful of minutes. 

Yuri whimpers. Poor baby. “Beka,” he whines, voice so scratchy Otabek is sure it’ll stay like that for a while. Otabek thumbs his bottom lip, dipping inside when he parts them. 

“Come up here,” he says, standing. Yuri looks pretty on his knees, so small and pliant and submissive in a way Otabek hadn’t realized was actually possible. He listens, making a move to sit on the couch. “On your knees and turn around.” Yuri listens, leaning on his elbows against the back of the sofa. 

Otabek smooths his hands over Yuri’s ass, smiling amusedly as Yuri’s breath hitches and he presses back into the touch. He touches Yuri like this for a minute or so, until Yuri is whining at him, impatient. Otabek hooks his fingers in the band of Yuri’s pants, and when he gets them over the cleft of his ass, the smaller raises up so he can take them off all the way. 

Eager kitten. “Look at you,” Otabek says. “So desperate for me, huh? I’ve made you wait so long, haven’t I?”

“Yeah,” Yuri says, like it’s embarrassing. 

“Want me to use my mouth on you, Yura?” Yuri nods enthusiastically, arching his back and pressing backwards, as though presenting himself to Otabek. The elder’s eyes rake over him slowly, his slim, muscular thighs and pretty hips and little cock, flushed and hanging heavy between his legs. “Even here?” He runs a finger over where Yuri is spread open, hole twitching under the touch.

Yuri lets out this long, pitiful moan, as if to say _especially there_. “Please,” he pleads, “Please use your mouth.”

How could Otabek say no to that? 

Yuri gasps at the first touch of Otabek’s tongue on his hole, toes curling and head dropping down. It isn’t shocking how fast Yuri opens up for him, but it is appreciated. He doesn’t push Otabek away when he presses his tongue in, reaching a hand back to keep Otabek there, fucking him slowly. He runs his tongue around his rim in slow circles before pressing it in every few seconds. Yuri seems to be tied between jerking away from the sensation and pressing back into it. 

It’s very cute, Otabek thinks, and besides, Yuri can’t go anywhere with the grip Otabek has on him. 

“It feels really good,” Yuri pants, fingers tightening in Otabek’s hair, not that he minds. 

“Do you want it here, too?” Otabek asks before he trails his tongue all the way across Yuri’s taint to the tip of his pretty little cock. He wants to make it especially good for Yuri, seeing as this is the first and last time it can be. 

“ _Shit_ ,” Yuri whines. “I don’t know. I want everything.”

Otabek pulls the length of him back to take him into his mouth; and the angle is sort of weird, but it’s manageable. 

He remembers offhandedly, one time when Yuri had gotten particularly drunk, some months ago, and sent him photos of himself in a similar position that were far from modest. They were nothing special, really; grainy, low-lit nudes that could hardly be judged on photographic skill, but he still remembers them, even though they were never saved to his phone. 

The first of the two had been almost modest, with Yuri’s shirt held up with his teeth, cock shoved back to make him look almost flat, his cheeky rosy and eyes almost crossed with their gaze at the camera. The second, admittedly, had piqued Otabek’s interest more than he wanted to acknowledge at the time. It had been the same photo, almost, though instead from the back, with his ruddy little cock trapped between his thighs and one hand pulling a cheek back to offer a view of his hole, had it not have been for the god awful lighting. 

They’d served their purpose, of course, though at the time Otabek didn’t get off to them initially, because it had felt weird to him, even though he knew that Yuri hadn’t sent them accidentally-- inebriation aside. He’d deleted them immediately, telling Yuri the next day when he texted asking about him ‘sending anything interesting’ the night prior, that nothing had come through, and he didn’t think that Yuri had believed him, but it didn’t matter, because they were purged not only from his phone’s memory but also his own.

Or, at least that’s what he’d thought. 

The following night, and for several nights after the fact, his brain conjured up a Dream Yuri for him, always in a similar position, always asking politely (too politely, especially for Yuri, though now he knows it’s not completely off) _Please, Beka, give me your cock_. And of course, because Dream Otabek had an alarmingly low level of self-control, he’d always agree, fucking the little minx until all he could do was babble out word garbage that licked delightfully up Dream Otabek’s spine. And Otabek would wake with sticky boxers and a half-hard cock that filled him with more shame than he thought possible. 

He doesn’t feel shame now, though he probably should, because Yuri is moaning so prettily for him, body so sensitive and responsive to even the slightest touches. He’s moved back to prodding at Yuri’s hole with his tongue, stroking his spit-slick length off halfheartedly, though it’s no doubt appreciated. 

“Beka,” Yuri grits out. It’s a warning; Otabek can tell from how much his voice is shaking that it’s a warning, and normally he’d pull away to say _it’s okay, you can cum_ , but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to interrupt this. 

Yuri cums with a whimper, fingers curling into the couch cushions and spilling onto the leather. “Good,” Otabek says, louder than Yuri’s heavy panting but not by much. He uses Yuri’s precum stained boxers to wipe up the seed, and if Yuri weren’t post-glow, he’s sure he’d probably be chewed out for it. “Should we go to your room?”

“I can’t feel my legs,” Yuri tells him. Otabek is sure it’s only half-true, but he picks him up anyway. Yuri squeaks, like it wasn't his plan all along, and tucks his face into Otabek’s shoulder. 

When they get to the bedroom, Otabek holds him with one hand as the other clears off the pile of blankets. Once cleared, he lays Yuri down, crawling over him and kissing him on the mouth. Yuri responds in tandem, holding the back of Otabek’s head while the other grips a shoulder. They kiss like this for a while, until Otabek loses his shirt, and his jeans, and he’s making a move to take off Yuri’s sweater, but Yuri stops him. 

“I…” he trails off, looking bashful. “I want to keep it on.” 

A thrum of heat rushes through Otabek at the thought of fucking Yuri in his clothes. He grins, charming, and kisses Yuri’s cheek before trailing down to his jaw, nibbling at the pronounced bones before whispering in his ear, “Where do you keep the lube, kitten?”

Yuri chews on his lip as he points to the bedside table. Otabek gets off of him to look in the drawer, and he finds not only a half-empty bottle of water-based lube, but also a few condoms, varying in brand and size, and a small vibrator, which Otabek tucks into his mind for later. 

No, he realizes, scratching that thought. There is no later. That’s what being good is about, now. 

When he comes back over, sitting on his haunches, Yuri spreads his legs and bends his knees to give Otabek a view of his hole, still glossy and wet from the number he’d done on it earlier. In the time it’d taken him to produce the bottle of lubricant, Yuri has also taken the liberty of shoving a few pillows under the small of his back to prop him up better. 

Otabek slides the hoodie upwards far enough to expose both nipples, ruddy and pebbled. He takes one between two fingers and pulls at it, making Yuri breathe in sharply. He’s hiding a little bit, behind the back of a sweater sleeve-covered hand, but Otabek doesn’t mind. It’s nice to see him let his guard down and be embarrassed for once. 

“Are you ready, then?” Otabek asks. “Can I give you my fingers?”

“Yes please,” Yuri mumbles, face beet red. It’s understandable; he is more exposed this time around, and he can also see the way Otabek looks at him: hungry like he hasn’t been fed in years. He’s chewing on his lip as he watches Otabek squeeze a generous amount of lube onto his fingers, smearing whatever’s left onto Yuri’s hole, which twitches at the contact.

Yuri takes the first finger easily, but this, too, had been something Otabek had expected from him. He doesn’t clench around the intrusion, nor does he squirm under the touch. He’s silent, save for his ragged breathing, his body still and accepting of what Otabek has to offer. 

“Good,” the elder murmurs, mostly just to fill the silence. He slides his index finger slowly in and out, getting Yuri used to it. His eyebrows are knotted like he can’t decide whether he wants more or not. Otabek is in no rush. 

He plants kisses up Yuri’s sternum, taking a nipple into his mouth at the same time he curls his finger, searching, and Yuri keens, high and airy from the back of his throat. He’s holding onto Otabek again, letting out these cute little kitten mewls that make heat stir within Otabek again. His skin is warm under Otabek’s mouth, goosebumps rising to the surface every time Otabek will let the tip of his tongue tease him; circling a nipple, sliding over his ribs, dipping into his navel. Yuri likes it; of course he does. His cock is hard and leaking again. 

“Can I have another?” Yuri asks weakly, after a long while of Otabek fucking him slowly with the single digit. He’s holding onto Otabek’s wrist gently, fingers thin and frail-feeling. 

Otabek rubs at Yuri’s spot, which he’d managed to find with relative ease. The enthusiastic, _Shit, Beka, there,_ that Yuri had moaned shakily had also been an added help. “What’s the rush?” Otabek asks with cheek. He dips a finger into the small pool of pre that Yuri has been leaking onto his hip since the first breach, rubbing the pads of his thumb and index fingers together and watching the strings it produces when he pulls them apart. Yuri mewls. “You do want it badly, though, don’t you, Yura?”

Yuri nods enthusiastically, and Otabek takes pity on him, sliding in a second finger. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Yuri breathes. “How are they so _thick_?” He squirms down onto Otabek’s hand in earnest now, and Otabek makes no move to stop him, enjoying the show. 

Slutty little kitten. 

He smooths a hand over Yuri’s stomach, the large thing nearly covering it all. Yuri looks so little, despite their size difference not being that noteworthy. It’s not even that Otabek is particularly muscular-- in fact, he’d probably put himself on the more lean side of things. It’s just that Yuri is lithe, dainty, even after all these years, with a small waist and little hips and ribs that stick out. His back dips where his spine is, and his elbows and knees make his limbs look gangly even though they’re so short and he’s just so pretty; Otabek could stare at him for hours and not get tired of it. 

He can tell Yuri is getting a little frustrated, because the angle isn’t right. He tries to get Otabek to crook his fingers upwards so they properly press against his prostate on the down thrust instead of grazing it, but Otabek has no intention of doing so. He likes toying with Yuri like this; not giving him enough pressure to feel more than a dull blanket of warmth, but just enough that he’s whining, desperate, with his brain all cloudy. 

“More,” Yuri manages to grit out, one hand fisted in his own hair, the other holding Otabek’s wrist in place. His face is all screwed up, concentrated, and Otabek finds it more endearing than he probably should. “More, Beka.”

“You should be grateful,” Otabek says lowly, unoccupied hand biting into the meat of Yuri’s thigh. “That I’m giving you this much.” He gives him a third finger anyway, because he feels generous. 

“ _Yessss_ ,” Yuri hums, opening up for it in no time. He stills the movement of Yuri’s hips and takes it upon himself to do the work for now. 

He fucks Yuri on his fingers like this for long enough that he loses track of time, pressing his fingers in deep and curling upwards to prod at the spot in Yuri that makes his toes curl. Yuri is very worked up over it by the time Otabek is halfway satisfied, panting and trembling and trying so hard to be quiet. He hasn’t touched Yuri’s cock once, and Yuri hasn’t tried to touch it either, almost like he knows, without verbal exchange, of what his place should be. 

“Yura,” he murmurs, pulling Yuri’s attention. “Do you think you can come like this? Untouched?”

“Probably,” he huffs, fingers tightening in his sheets. After a moment to consider: “Yes.”

“Good,” Otabek hums, satisfied. “I want you to come for me, Yura, and after you’re done, I’m going to fuck you while you’re still sensitive, and you’ll come for me again. Does that sound like something you want?”

Yuri moans, long and drawn out. “Jesus, yes, that sounds like heaven.” 

Otabek smiles. “Good,” he repeats. “Take what you need.” Yuri makes quick work of fucking himself down onto Otabek’s already moving hand, biting out _faster_ , and _more_ , and _fucking Christ, Beka_. Otabek takes a hand off of his thigh to still his hips. “Take what I give you,” he reiterates. Yuri huffs, but otherwise doesn’t complain, letting Otabek continue the harsh pressings of his fingers. 

Yuri gets all quiet when he realizes he’s about to cum, and the look that graces his face when it actually happens is going to be tattooed on the backs of Otabek’s eyelids for eternity. He’s practically crying, back arching so high it probably hurts, and his toes digging deep into the mattress. He paints himself in it, all the way up his chest, narrowly avoiding where his stolen hoodie is pushed out of the way. 

Otabek swipes up the warm fluid with the fingers of his unoccupied hand, pressing them into Yuri’s open mouth. Yuri moans around them, but sucks them until they’re clean. Otabek smiles, pleased. “Good boy,” he praises, pulling his fingers out of Yuri, who whines at the loss. “Shush,” he tells him, making a move to lean over and grab a condom from the drawer. “You’ll be full again in just a second.”

“Wait,” Yuri pants, grabbing his wrist and stopping his movements. 

Otabek sits back on his haunches, tilting his head curiously. Yuri leans up on his elbows.

“You don’t need one. I’m safe,” Yuri says. It’s not a matter of him being safe or not-- Otabek wouldn’t have eaten him out bare earlier if he had any thoughts of him being unsafe. It’s just a courtesy thing. He doesn’t feel like saying this, though, and Yuri continues speaking. “I just use toys, No one’s ever--” he cuts himself off. “I just want you to come inside.”

Otabek pauses at the implication. It never occurred to him with the way Yuri acted that he could possibly be-- “You’re a virgin?”

Seeming to back-track, Yuri shoots him a glare. “Does it matter?” Defensive, embarrassed. 

No, Otabek supposes it doesn’t. 

Upon realizing that Otabek isn’t going to mock him, he murmurs, “I’ve done _other_ _stuff_ with people I just… Never let them touch me there.” Another pause, this time for longer. When he speaks, Otebek has to strain to hear it. “I wanted you to be the one who did it first.”

Otabek has half a mind to coo at him, but even like this he knows Yuri would probably try to stab him. “Don’t get sappy, kitten.”

“You’re the one who asked.” Where he’d normally be grumpy about it, he just sounds exasperated, like he can’t wait for this conversation to be over. “If we’re done with mushy shit, can you please fuck me? I will do it myself if you don’t put it in me in the next three seconds, I swear.”

“Don’t be a brat,” Otabek chides him, but he’s sliding his slicked up length into Yuri anyways. He goes slow, considering the confession Yuri had just made, or at least he would be, if Yuri wasn’t nudging him inside deeper with a leg hooked around his hips. “Don’t _rush_.” 

“I can’t help it,” Yuri whines, like the sensitivity is just hitting him. He’s all twitchy, keening like the sliver of his normal self he’d just shown had never even existed in the first place. “I want you so bad.”

Otabek holds his position when he’s all the way in, and Yuri just can't stop moving, even when Otabek lifts his leg over his shoulder and presses kisses to his claves, which, like the rest of him, are smooth and clean-shaven. “You feel good, kitten,” he says, grinding in the slightest bit. 

“M’so _full_ ,” Yuri gasps, halfway between bewilderment and awe that it’s possible to feel like this. “It’s so much.” 

“Too much?”

Yuri shakes his head violently. “Please move before I die.” 

“You won’t die,” Otabek says, beginning to fuck him in earnest. He’s wriggling so much Otabek has to hold him in place, head tipped back and making the lewdest noises Otabek has ever heard in his life. 

“ _God_ ,” Yuri manages to huff, voice sounding wrung out, barely there. 

“Does it hurt, baby?”

“Yes,” Yuri cries. His little cock is filling up again, despite himself. “But I like it so much.” 

He takes Yuri’s leg and presses it backward, taking advantage of his flexibility and folding him practically in half to get a better angle. Yuri is gasping, ragged and uneven, chest heaving. Otabek slows down. “Breathe,” he says. Yuri tries, inhaling deeply, but it comes out as a sputter as the head of Otabek’s length presses against his abused prostate. “I’m going easy on you, kitten.”

“ _How_?” 

“Should I stop?”

“ _Never_."

Yuri makes a noise like if you stepped on a kitten’s paw when Otabek grabs hold of his cock, picking his speed back up. It’s hot and angry under his touch, quivering and over-sensitive, jumping at the smallest strokes of his fingers. Otabek would feel bad for him, probably, if he didn’t look so pretty like this; all flushed and shaky, babbling about this and that, eyes glassy from the overstimulation. He’s brought partners to this state before; quivering and sensitive, but it’s almost different with Yuri. It’s more memorable, like Otabek could never forget the colour of his flushed chest or bitten-red lips, or the way goosebumps rise to his skin under the slightest touch, or the pretty noises that Yuri just can’t hold back. 

He feels like kissing him, so he does. It’s all wet and loose-lipped, and when Otabek slips his tongue in, Yuri tries to reciprocate but finds he can’t; too busy trying not to die to do anything more than arch his back and throw his arms over Otabek’s shoulders. His fingers dig in to the muscles of Otabek’s shoulders, blunt nails biting at the skin, but Otabek doesn’t mind; he’d probably be the same if he were in this position. 

Otabek takes Yuri’s bottom lip between his teeth, drinking in the pleas that come from him; swallowing them down and burning them onto a mental CD. He trails sloppy open-mouthed kisses along Yuri’s jaw, sucking a bruise where a even a turtleneck won’t hide it: below his ear where his jaw meets his neck. It’s as if to say _mine_ , even though he isn’t, really. Won’t be, after Otabek leaves. It’s probably mean, he realizes, as Yuri looks up to him with his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth hanging open, to leave any traces. He’ll probably still think about it, after, when he looks in the mirror or feels the sting of pressing his fingers into it. It doesn’t matter now, anyway. 

Still, above all else, Otabek is a very selfish person, so he leaves a mark on the centre of his chest, too, and another right below the collar of his hoodie. Yuri doesn’t seem to mind right now, but it might also be the fact that Otabek had been driving into him at a pace that’s been making him insane for the better part of a half an hour now, and he’s probably too far gone to care about anything besides Otabek never stopping. 

“Beka,” he whines out pitifully, voice now a garbled slur of what it’d been mere minutes ago. “M’gonna cum again.” 

Otabek hums against his skin. He can feel himself growing closer, too, but it’d be hard for him not to be with how tight Yuri feels around him. “Okay, kitten,” he says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Yuri pulls him impossibly close, biting roughly into the meat of Otabek’s shoulder, making him hiss. Otabek thinks he tries to sooth it with his tongue, but he get’s cut off partway through with a cry that’d make you think he was being killed. Otabek can’t see, but he can feel the pathetic little dribble of cum his spent cock spurts out onto his hand. 

“Good kitten,” he murmurs again, voice wavering. Yuri howls as Otabek continues to tug at his raw length, and Otabek takes pity on him, releasing it and rubbing his hand on his tummy instead. 

“Come inside,” Yuri whispers, voice still small and fuck drunk. “Please.” 

Otabek can feel it in his toes when he cums, growling out a low, “ _Yuratchka_ ,” that makes Yuri whimper, legs tightening around Otabek’s hips. 

There’s a moment where they’re just panting, clinging tightly to one another loosely, but refusing to let go nonetheless. Otabek rolls over so Yuri is on top of him, and his stomach is sticky but Otabek will wipe them both down eventually, so it doesn’t really matter. He holds Yuri’s waist with one hand as the other dances up and down his spine, trailing down after a few moments to press the cum back in where it’s leaking down his thigh. 

Yuri is warm, light, still shaking in the aftershocks and making tiny little mewling noises while he calms down from it. He’s gone limp like a ragdoll, but Otabek doesn’t mind. He’s going to relish in this while he can, after all. He feels the overwhelming urge to kiss Yuri, but his head feels too heavy to try. 

Otabek does make Yuri roll off of him eventually, and the younger complains even though it’d been him that had made a comment about feeling gross. His qualms are soon to be forgotten as Otabek wipes him down gently with a warm washcloth. He starts at Yuri’s shoulders, down each of his arms and over his fingertips, cleaning off the sweat and grime, then down his chest, through the tacky puddles of spunk that make his skin shine, and finally down below, even though Yuri whines about it.

“I want to keep it inside,” Yuri protests, even as he doesn’t resist Otabek lifting his leg to wipe between his cheeks and down his thighs. 

“You won’t in about five minutes,” Otabek says quietly.

“I probably will,” Yuri responds, and it means more than it does at face value, but Otabek doesn’t let himself think about it. 

“Don’t worry,” Otabek says, aiming for joking but falling flat. “You’ll be pulling it out of yourself for a while next time you shower.” 

Yuri doesn’t say anything as he watches Otabek wipe himself down too. He does, however, pipe up again as he makes a move to pick up his boxers from the floor. “Can I wear those?” he asks, looking almost nervous about it. 

“They’re the only ones I have,” Otabek says. “And yours won’t fit me.”

“Please?” He looks impossibly small and sweet, batting his eyelashes in a way that Otabek thinks isn’t with intent. With a sigh, he tosses them at Yuri, who smiles to himself as he slips them on. One uncomfortable ride home won’t be that big of a deal, Otabek supposes, and after all, he wants to dull the sting of what’s inevitably to come after this early on. 

Yuri watches him as he slips back into his jeans and his t-shirt, knees pulled to his chest and chin resting atop them. “Can I have one more kiss?” he asks. He tilts his head up, almost to present himself. Otabek looks him over, contemplative. He decides to press a gentle kiss to his forehead, smoothing his hair down with a hand. “That’s not--” Yuri starts, but Otabek cuts him off. 

“Just take it, Yuri,” he says, stepping back. The spell has broken between them, awkward and angry. Every beat of silence feels like another dagger in Otabek’s chest. “Look, I should probably head out.”

“Right,” Yuri says. He’s not looking at Otabek now, but the elder doesn’t blame him. He feels like he’s taken something from Yuri that he shouldn’t, but it’s something he can never give back. 

“You can text me, tomorrow, or something. If you want,” Otabek offers. It sounds forced. It feels forced too. 

“Just go home, Otabek,” Yuri tells him, short and sweet. It stings like alcohol in a fresh wound, but Otabek has brought this on himself, hasn’t he? “It’s okay. You don’t have to make it something it’s not. I’ll be okay.”

Otabek pauses in the doorway to look at him once more. “Good night, then, Yuri.”

He leaves. 

  
  


-

  
  
  
  


Otabek comes back. His throat tastes metallic from the running, and he’s heaving by the time he’s pounding at Yuri’s door, key long forgotten. It’s probably too late for him to be knocking this loud, but he’s not thinking of Yuri’s neighbours when he’s just had what was probably the biggest epiphany of his life. 

When Yuri opens the door, he’s still in Otabek’s sweater and boxers, eyes puffy and face red like he’s been crying. Otabek is still panting when Yuri asks, “Did you forget something?”

“Yuri,” Otabek huffs, “ _Yuri_.”

“What do you want, Otabek?”

“It’s not okay,” he says, standing up straight. “I don’t want it just once with you, Yura. I want to hold you and kiss you and make you breakfast and yell at you for smoking even though I think you look pretty. I want to wake up to your face every morning and play with your hair when we watch TV and hold your hand when we leave practice together. I spent so much time trying to be good that I didn’t see how I was hurting you, and I’ve been pushing down these feelings for years because it always felt so wrong to me and I’m sorry that I treated you like shit all those times because I was just a stupid asshole who wouldn’t figure out what he wanted. I just. I want _you_ , Yura. I’m sorry I couldn’t figure that out earlier.”

When he looks up, there are tears running down Yuri’s cheeks. “Are you… Are you tricking me?” Otabek is truly offended at the notion. He takes Yuri’s face in his hands, brushing his tears away with his thumbs. 

“No, Yuri, never,” he says. He’s never once seen Yuri cry before. The fact that he’s the one making it happen makes his heart ache like it’s never ached. 

“I’ve been in love with you since I was fifteen,” Yuri says. His voice is shaking like he might start sobbing. 

“I know,” Otabek says. “I _know_. I’m sorry.”

“You made me feel so stupid,” Yuri tells him, sniffling and looking away. “Trying to make you want me and turning me down every time.”

“I know,” Otabek admits. “In my defence, I still wouldn’t have even thought about touching you until you were eighteen.” 

“ _God_ ,” Yuri groans, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Fuck you,” he adds. “I forgive you, but God, seriously, fuck you for making me cry.” 

“I deserve that,” Otabek says, tucking a strand of Yuri’s hair behind his ear. “I don’t want you to cry over me.”

“Please kiss me,” he says. “And not some forehead bullshit, seriously. I deserve it.”

Otabek holds his chin gently between his fingers, looking into Yuri’s eyes before he kisses him softly. It’s unmistakably different than any of the other times they’ve kissed. It’s gentle, sweet, and unhurried; there’s no lust, no pining, because there’s no _need_ for that anymore. Yuri doesn’t have to worry about this kiss being their last, and Otabek doesn’t have to worry about what he thought was being good. He’s happy. Yuri is happy. That’s what being good is. 

“We’re going to have to talk about it,” Otabek tells him. 

Yuri nods. “I know,” he says, “but we can do it later. I just want you to hold me for a while.”

“I can do that.”

“Good.”

Otabek does. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> sappy ending for something that was supposed to be everything but that. come find me on [tumblr](https://somethin-real.tumblr.com)


End file.
